


100 Emotions

by ProxyOne



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bed baths, Blow Jobs, Changing Tenses, Comfort, Cuba, Drabbles, Fic Challenge, Ficlets, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hannibal is an emo fuck lbr, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Shameless Smut, Will is overly dramatic, Will is very manipulative, emergence of feelings, in good and bad ways, of a sort, post-FALL angst, squabbles over boat knots, sweaty fighty times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6132094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProxyOne/pseuds/ProxyOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets for the <a href="https://kathrineroid.wordpress.com/2011/09/25/100-themes-challenge-writing-prompts/">100 Emotions Fic Challenge</a></p><p>So this was going to be a series, but I decided to declutter everything and make it a multi chapter instead.  Some chapters will be linked to each other, but for the most part they will all be stand alone drabbles.  Some will serve as starting points for future fics.  Updates every couple of weeks or so.</p><p>Most recent prompts: </p><p>XVI. Horror:  Hannibal is struck by nightmares.</p><p>XVII. Acceptance: Jack and Alana have a lot to discuss</p><p>XVIII. Sympathy: Hannibal has needs too, you know</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. Birth

Watching Will finally emerge into the world was a feeling unlike any other that Hannibal had experienced. He knew it was commonly held belief that he didn't have emotions, but the world was entirely wrong about that, and he had never been more aware of that fact than now, watching as Will finally broke free of all his decaying tethers and allowed his true self into the world.

Like any birth, there was blood, and there was pain, and it produced beauty, and love, and in that moment Hannibal knew there was nothing he wouldn't do for Will Graham. Everything he had done up until now had been with this end in mind, and now they were here. It was overwhelming. He took the hand Will held out, helping him to his feet. He wanted to pull him close, never let him go, but he let Will take the lead now. Hannibal would always be there to guide him, but from this moment it would be under Will's lead. Always.

“See? This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”

“It's beautiful,” Will whispered, and those two words nearly destroyed Hannibal where he stood.

_No, you're beautiful, Will. I knew this is who you were. I knew you would not just tolerate, not just accept, but love this, if you only allowed yourself to._

Hannibal was overcome, one of those rare moments in his life when he not only could not find words, but didn't _want_ them. He relished this silence, this intimacy of the type he had never known before. They clung to one another, Will's head resting on Hannibal's chest. He nuzzled those brown curls, still covered in the blood of his becoming, but did not go any further than that, instead cradling the one person he had ever truly wanted close to his heart.

The moment stretched out into an infinity, what felt to Hannibal like the final joining of their two souls. It was an exquisite pain. He wanted to push it away and never feel it again, and he wanted it to never end. He wondered if Will could feel how Hannibal was being rent asunder, simultaneously destroyed and put together again over and over. This was heaven, it was hell, it was all things that could possibly be.

He knew what Will was planning, yet it still came as a surprise. Not one he was willing to fight, not now that he was going to follow Will anywhere. As they fell, he held Will tighter, felt the way Will clung back, as though they could physically become one person if only they pulled a little closer. Only a few seconds more would tell him whether this would be their end, or a new kind of birth for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A series of ficlets for the [100 Emotions Fic Challenge](https://kathrineroid.wordpress.com/2011/09/25/100-themes-challenge-writing-prompts/) :D ♥


	2. II. Enthusiasm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal shows a surprising level of enthusiasm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this chapter absolutely refuses to hold on to its chapter title, so it is actually: "II. Enthusiasm."

Will gazed down at Hannibal, still unable to quite believe what was before him. Hannibal Lecter, the man who had spent almost the entirety of the first six years they had known each other trying, in one capacity or another, to control and manipulate him, like this. Open, trusting, giving himself over to Will. And he was so downright _passionate_ about the whole thing.

Will reached down, gripping Hannibal's hair tightly as Hannibal choked on Will's cock, his hands firmly tied behind him. Hannibal was balanced precariously on his knees, only Will's body holding him still. If he wanted to, Will could shift back right now, and there would be nothing stopping Hannibal from crashing off the bed and onto the floor. They both knew that was never going to happen.

Hannibal pulled back for a moment, sucking lungfuls of air in, before he threw himself back into his task, swallowing Will down. Will's eyes rolled back as his cock hit the back of Hannibal's throat. Who knew that the man would get so much joy out of this, and the rougher Will got, the more he seemed to enjoy it. It was with this in mind that Will yanked on Hannibal's hair, pulling him in hard until his face was flush against Will's skin. Will marvelled at the way Hannibal relaxed further, even as he began gagging and swallowing reflexively. The groan that came from him was almost godlike in its effect on Will, though mentioning that to the egomaniac currently with a dick down his throat was most definitely _not_ going to happen.

Will let out an answering groan, and released his hold on Hannibal. Hannibal pulled back, breathing harshly around Will's cock but not letting it slip out of his mouth for even a second, before resuming his eager sucking, his tongue swirling and looping around in the most divine patterns as he worked. He sucked even harder, hollowing his cheeks out, head bobbing, and it was all Will could do not to come right then and there. As it was, he doubted very much he could hold on much longer.

The hotel bed began to creak, just slightly, with how much effort Hannibal was putting into throwing his body back and forth, and Will couldn't help but wonder what state it would be left in if they were engaging in something other than the world's most enthusiastic blow job. Hannibal's hair fell forward, obscuring his eyes from Will, and that just wouldn't do at all. Will grabbed all of it, both hands full, and tugged on it until Hannibal looked up, maintaining his punishing rhythm. Will could see how black Hannibal's eyes were, pupils fully lust blown, and knew that Hannibal was seeing the same thing in his own eyes. The sheer want, _need_ he could see reflected there was too much for Will to take. He yanked Hannibal's hair hard again, the other direction this time, pulling his head back, and he watched as thick spurts of come shot all over Hannibal's face. His knees grew weak at the needy sound Hannibal made, watching as Hannibal's tongue darted out to lick at his lips to take in as much of the come dripping down as he could.

Exhausted and breathless, Will collapsed on the bed next to Hannibal, carefully making sure Hannibal lay on his side next to him. He reached down to take Hannibal's length in hand, then smirked when he found stickiness and Hannibal hissing in over stimulation.

“I still can't believe coming on your face is enough to get you off,” Will said, breathless laughs escaping despite himself. “I still can't believe you let me do that,” he added, more seriously.

“You think you let me, or is it that _I_ let _you_ take control once in a while?” Hannibal said with a soft smile, the heat from before dissipating and leaving warmth and affection in its place.

Will really had nothing to say to that. He grabbed a tissue from the box next to the bed and gently wiped the remains of his semen from Hannibal's face, laying a trail of small, soft kisses as he moved. He reached his mouth, nipping and biting at those swollen lips until they parted, and he could taste himself on Hannibal's tongue.

“Are you going to untie me?” Hannibal asked, only pulling away enough to speak, his eyes still closed from the kiss.

“I might keep you like this all night.”

“I might let you,” he replied, and to his surprise Will knew that it was true.

 


	3. III. Love

It is impossible for Hannibal to pinpoint the precise moment love snared him in its jaws. It crept up on him, silently, a far more efficient predator than even he could ever hope to be, and now he is hopelessly ensnared. He hasn't loved anyone for a long time. He's had fondness, even genuine affection for others, but nothing close to the level of maddening desire and need that he feels now, and the fact that he can't recall ever being caught – or did he walk into that maw willingly? - infuriates him, leaves him as weak and dependent as a day old kitten.

And there is nothing he can do about it.

Not when love looks at him, all blue eyes and unruly curls and a deep, seething darkness below that angelic surface that Hannibal can't help but be irresistibly drawn to.

Not when love whispers in his ear all manner of twisted desires, and takes every last one of them from him.

Not when it tears him to pieces and puts him back together with whispered kisses.

Love has devoured him. Over and over it devours, only for him to be reborn and devoured anew.

He thinks if only he could recall when he was caught, he would be able to do something, _anything_ about it, but he knows that it is a futile struggle, that once caught there is no solution, for even to cut love away would be to leave himself worse than dead. Even if the focus of love was gone, it would still be there, but without that focus it would rot him from the inside, leaving him a contemptible shadow of what he once was. He has been irrevocably changed.

Love enters the room, and it looks at him, and it whispers to him and it destroys him and he welcomes it all gladly. He wraps his arms around it, and he protects it, from the world, and from himself.

Always, and most of all, he will protect it from himself.

 


	4. IV. Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set between Mizumono & Antipasto

“We are her fathers now.”

Those words won't leave Will's mind, buzzing around like a swarm of mosquitoes that won't be swatted away. Over and over, Will hears Hannibal's words, and sees his actions, and he _hates_. He sees what was left of Beverly, and he hates some more.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, and the face opposite him remains an impassive mask, giving no clue as to what is roiling in the depths below.

He stands, stalking around the figure, his hate surging through him, out of him, demanding to be unleashed on the person responsible for all of this death and misery. It can't be, it is too tightly tethered, and Will thinks he will burn if it remains trapped in him much longer.

He looks to the corner of the room and sees Abigail's accusing face, asking why, why did every father figure she had want to kill her, what was so twisted and sick about her that that was the only sort of person she could attract? Will longs to go to her, but the hate doesn't just tether itself, it traps him, and she fades away before his eyes, the accusation reflected in her own eyes chipping away at him again. It is the figure in the chair that she is looking at as she finally disappears from view, and that destroys Will a little more.

She is replaced by Beverly, the same accusing look on her face and there's nothing he can do about it, he knows that she deserved it as much as Abigail did, neither of them having done anything wrong except be in the wrong place at the wrong time. His words now won't change anything. His actions won't change anything. He looks away, unable to bear the forgiveness that now changes her features into something more pure. Her face and Abigail's blur in Will's mind, both of them forgiving the seated figure and he wants to scream at them that he isn't worthy of forgiveness, that everything about him is wrong but the sound gets stuck in his throat and he's choking, choking as he turns to look down at him, tears running down his cheeks.

He stares down at his own face, still unmoving, and wants to wipe it from the surface of the earth for allowing this to happen, for sending Beverly to her death, for not knowing that Abigail could still be saved. A movement tears his attention away, and he sees Hannibal standing behind the chair, his hands resting gently on Will's shoulders, tears and blood dripping staining his shirt, just like the last time he had seen him.

Will knows this was all his fault. He had played a game, and he had lost control, and set this entire story into motion.

He hates. But he can't hate Hannibal, and he hates himself all the more for it.

 


	5. V. Triumph

It was a habit they'd somehow fallen into, started once they were safely away from the US, and sufficiently recovered to be able to move. It had been Hannibal's idea, one Will had agreed with. They both needed something resembling physiotherapy after their injuries began to heal, but couldn't exactly find themselves a physiotherapist they could explain their injuries to. Gunshots, stab wounds, and the multitude of bruises, sprains and strains that resulted from plummeting off a cliff would raise the suspicions of anyone. So, they began a work out routine of their own.

It had started off gentle, slow, but over the last few months it had somehow, without Will noticing it, become something else entirely. Rough. Raw. _Physical._ What had once been drawn out stretches were now grapples. Where once there had been controlled breathing, there was stalking, each man trying to outmaneuver the other. Gentle movements, without either of them seeming to be consciously aware of the change as it had happened, gave way to controlled violence.

Today was no different. They circled each other, eye contact unbreaking. Will rolled his shoulder, a movement designed both to work out the slight stiffness that still troubled him, and to try and fool Hannibal into seeing a weakness to exploit. He didn't expect it to work.

It did.

He smiled as Hannibal lunged forward, targeting the shoulder Will had telegraphed vulnerability in. He forced himself to wait, turning only as Hannibal made contact, using his momentum to throw him to the floor. Predictably, Hannibal adjusted quickly. It amused Will, the way they were ever at a stalemate, neither one ever quite able to gain the upper hand. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't noticed the way that strange tension between them ratcheted up another notch with every bout, with every touch. He'd be lying if he said he didn't crave it, crave the attempt to make Hannibal's iron clad self control finally shatter. He knew Hannibal wanted him, had known it since before he'd decided to torment Bedelia into confirming it.

He knew that Hannibal did _not_ know that Will wanted him back, and that only pride was preventing him from making the first move.

He pivoted with Hannibal, hands gripping those strong arm muscles as he did so. The movement spun them both, and Will took the opportunity to sweep his foot out, catching Hannibal's and sending him crashing onto his back. It seemed almost too easy, and Will entertained the thought that Hannibal was playing the same game Will himself was, merely feigning weakness in order to take advantage of Will. The air that was forced out of Hannibal, and the wince that appeared, however briefly, told Will otherwise, and this time he _did_ take hold of that advantage. He dropped down onto the tops of Hannibal's thighs and immediately seized his wrists, pinning them above his head. The movement drew them close together, sending that familiar surge of electricity up to higher levels than ever before.

“I win,” Will breathed, acutely aware of the way Hannibal's chest heaved, the way they _both_ panted with the exertion, the sheen of sweat covering both of their bodies. His eyes raked over the form laid out beneath him. He was momentarily thrown by the utter lack of fight coming from Hannibal, until his gaze reached Hannibal's eyes, when epiphany hit him.

Hannibal was no less than _triumphant;_ the subtle twitch of his hips did not go unnoticed by Will. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips as Will's hands tightened on his wrists, the motion drawing Will's gaze and rendering him unable to move so much as an inch.

“I think,” said Hannibal, voice soft and silky in the way that only Hannibal could manage in such a position, “that I win this round.”

Will could only breath out a silent laugh in agreement as he dipped his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes, I know, the fake fight turned sexy times thing is such a cliche, but I'm a huge fucking sucker for it anyway. _Especially_ when it comes to these two idiots.


	6. VI. Feel

“When did your feelings for me first develop?”

They're sitting on the deck of the boat, wounds all but healed. Most of them, anyway. Will isn't entirely sure that goading Hannibal like this is necessarily a good idea, but he's bored, and he's tired of Hannibal refusing to acknowledge Will like that, sick of being treated like everything is the same, even though he has to know that Will _knows._

Hannibal doesn't answer, not at first. Instead he swirls the wine around in its glass, his attention focussed first on the glinting ruby eddies, then out to the vast and empty ocean around them. Will rolls his eyes, huffs, and it's then that Hannibal shifts his attention to him, in a way he hasn't done since they fell.

“Do you mean when did these feelings first start, or when did I become aware of them? They are two different questions, yet I only know the answer to one of them.”

Will doesn't know which he wants the answer to. Both. Neither. He watches Hannibal for a moment, each of their faces as carefully blank as the other, then looks out over the water. He shrugs.

“Whatever you want to tell me. As long as it's _something._ ”

“Why do you want to know?”

There is genuine curiosity in Hannibal's voice, as though he can't fathom why this could possibly be important to Will.

“It's just the two of us on this boat,” he says after some thought. “It's best that we are honest with each other. Part of that is knowing where we stand.”

He risks a glance at Hannibal. He is looking back at Will dubiously, not buying it at all but still unable to work out Will's true motivations. He'd be impressed if Hannibal could – he doesn't know his motivations himself, not really. Boredom is only part of it; he's been wanting to know the answer to this for a long time.

“As I said, I can't tell you when they first started. Part of me feels that I was fated to love you, and did before I ever met you.”

And if that wasn't a sucker punch, Will didn't know what was. Asking for honesty was one thing, but _getting_ it was something completely different, and he hadn't at all prepared himself for Hannibal just flat out telling him he loved him. He only realises he's been holding his breath when he lets it all out in a rush, and he has to look away from Hannibal again, his head spinning faintly.

“Every choice I have made in my life has lead me to your feet, Will. I have lain here before them, naked and prostrate, waiting for you, for longer than I care to imagine.”

Hannibal's tendency to speak in metaphor has an equal tendency to manifest itself as literal images in Will's mind, and this is no exception. He has a vision of Hannibal, naked and bound on the ground before him, looking up through the loose hair of his fringe, adoration and worship in his eyes. Will shifts uncomfortably before the effect that image is having on him becomes too noticeable. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Hannibal watching him, no doubt wondering where the ripples from the stone he has just thrown into the pool of Will's mind are heading.

And yet, for all that manipulation is second nature to Hannibal, and Will knows that he does it without even thinking about it, he can also tell that he is sincere in this moment. His interest in Will's reaction isn't because he has an end goal in mind; instead, it's precisely because he _doesn't_ know how Will is going to react that he's paying such close attention.

He chooses to remain quiet, to let Hannibal talk as the words come to him. He knows Hannibal, once started, will not be able to hold back the tide. He doesn't disappoint him.

“As for when it became a conscious realisation?” he begins slowly, looking away from Will and back out to the horizon. It seems that it is easier for Hannibal to be truthful about his feelings if he only has to look at the subject of them once he is done. That suits Will. It means he can watch Hannibal without distraction.

“There were tickles of awareness at various times. When I made you soup when you were in the hospital. When you brought me wine for a dinner party you had no intention of remaining at. But it was only when I was sitting opposite an empty chair, waiting for an appointment you had no chance of making, that I was able to put a name to it.”

“Because I was in jail,” Will responds flatly, all too aware of the reason he wasn't able to make it.

“Yes.”

Hannibal's response is calm, but there's an underlying current of tension below that. Will doubts anyone else would be able to detect it, but he and Hannibal are far beyond being able to hide things like that from each other.

“You know,” he says carefully, not wanting to disrupt the careful balance they have reached with each other. “It would have been easier on everyone if you'd just pulled my hair and run away.”

A small smile breaks through on Hannibal's face, pushing aside the worry and apprehension that have clouded it for weeks. Will is painfully aware of how very like a sunrise it is, lighting up Hannibal's face and lifting some of Will's own tension with it.

“As though this were a school yard crush, and nothing more,” Hannibal says, his eyes still firmly fixed on the horizon, and the sadness that is carried with the statement makes Will want to gather Hannibal in his arms.

He doesn't.

“It wouldn't be us, if we made things easy and normal, would it?” he says quietly instead, shifting his gaze away to follow Hannibal's.

“Anyone can be easy. Anyone can be normal. You are worth so much more than that.”

Will is momentarily floored by the depth of feeling in Hannibal's voice, the quiet fierceness with which he speaks. He turns to look at Hannibal and finds him staring back, such calm intensity flowing through and over him. He's glad they're both sitting, because he's fairly certain his knees would collapse under they weight of the devotion that is being shown to him.

They hold each other's gaze for a moment that stretches into an eternity before ending in a heartbeat, and Will mourns the loss of that connection when Hannibal returns to staring ahead of them. His eyes track over Hannibal's face in lieu of it, taking in every line, every scar, the way his silvery hair falls over his forehead and his stubble covers his jaw.

“Are you going to ask me how I feel?” he blurts out. He hadn't meant to say it, but he can't help but be glad he did. This mood isn't going to last, he knows, and if they can reach some sort of accord now it will make things easier in the long term. Because he knows now more than ever, that there _is_ a long term, that there is no more leaving Hannibal. Not ever again.

“I will listen to anything you wish to say, and I will respect anything you wish to keep to yourself.”

And now Will has a choice. He knows Hannibal is, in defiance of all that others believe of him, scared of what Will might say. What he might hold back. Hannibal Lecter is believed to have no heart, but Will knows that is only because it has been given to him, completely and utterly. It is up to him if he holds it, breaks it, or gives him his own in return. And that thought terrifies Hannibal.

Will can see all this, but it doesn't mean that it makes his decision any easier. He knows the answer, that's not the problem. It's whether he tells Hannibal or not, that he's unsure about. It's only when he sees the way Hannibal is turning the glass in his hands over and over, then takes a much larger drink from it than he normally would, that he decides.

“I'm here with you now, Hannibal,” he starts, and he can see the way Hannibal physically braces himself. It hurts, to see someone so confident, so strong, being so unsure. “And that isn't going to change. Not ever. If you were to ask me how I feel...”

He trails off as Hannibal turns to look at him once more, muted hope lighting his expression. He watches the way the hope wars with disappointment the longer he remains silent. There is a power in this, toying with Hannibal in this way, but Will doesn't enjoy it. Not anymore. He can't.

“What I feel for you,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “Is not dissimilar to how you described as your feelings for me. Need. Want.”

He looks at the floor, then back up at Hannibal.

“Love.”

He forces the last word out, not because he doesn't mean it, but precisely because he _does_ , and this changes everything. Or maybe it changes nothing. Will doesn't know, and _that_ is what scares him.

Hannibal looks shell-shocked for a brief moment, before visibly gathering himself. He smiles, a wider, brighter thing than Will can ever recall seeing on his face before, and if his smile before was a sunrise, then this is the full weight of the noonday sun, burning Will to a cinder while he enjoys every second of it.

Will yearns to reach for Hannibal, to touch him in ways that have always been denied him, but he knows there is time for that. For now they sit, basking in each other's presence, adjusting to this redefining of who they are.

 


	7. VII. Wrecked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just an excuse for a tiny bit of porn, really

Hannibal had seen many looks on Will's face over the years they had known each other. Fear, anger, pleasure.

The rare smile that lit up his entire being, as though he were literally bathed in light.

But he didn't think he would ever be able to get enough of the look on his face when Hannibal was inside him, pushing Will to the edge but never, _never_ quite letting him fall over it until Hannibal was ready for him to. And oh, did Hannibal like to drag it out as much as possible.

There was the time Hannibal had tied Will to the bed, unable to do more than struggle against his restraints, _begging_ Hannibal after hours of orgasm denial, Hannibal's own come long since dried on Will's skin. His voice hoarse, tears leaving tracks down his face, but never asking Hannibal to stop, only ever asking for more.

No, not asking.

Begging, pleading, demanding, because that was his boy, always demanding in the prettiest of ways.

And right now was no different, as he straddled Hannibal's lap, Hannibal sitting upright and leaning against the headboard of the bed. Will was grinding down and taking Hannibal as deep as he could, his head tipped back and those dark curls, longer now that they were on the run, brushing the backs of his shoulders. Hannibal reached a hand up, caressing the thick facial hair Will had carefully grown. Somewhere between long stubble and full beard, it made the scar on his cheek less noticeable, though even that couldn't cover it up entirely. Maybe if Will grew a long beard, but they both knew Will would never do that.

Without warning Hannibal slid his hand back to Will's hair and gripped, pulling his head further back as he pounded harder up into him, trying to drive ever deeper. A groan poured out of Will, and his fingers tightened on Hannibal's shoulders. He was in no doubt that there would be finger shaped bruises there later, and he relished the thought, leaning forward as much as he could to lick the sweat that was beading on Will's neck. The feel of Will's pulse racing below the skin excited him more than he could ever express, but even that paled in comparison to the way he felt when he looked at Will falling apart above him.

He came without warning, biting down, hard, on Will's shoulder as he filled him up, shaking with sensation and exhaustion, releasing his grip on Will's hair. He barely noticed the loose strands he had accidentally pulled from Will's scalp as his hand relaxed, too busy trying to ride out the over stimulation as Will rode him harder. He thumped his head back against the wall while Will tugged him closer, sucking hard on Hannibal's skin. The pain from Will's mouth distracted from the almost pain of Will's relentless movement. Hannibal could feel the come leaking from Will, the sticky-slippy-squelch sound beyond obscene, but it was only when he dug his nails into the skin of Will's back that the other man finally locked up, a long, slow growl of a groan filling Hannibal's ears and drowning him completely. Will's cock pulsed between their stomachs, his release coating their skin and he finally slowed down, the sound of panting now the only sound in the room.

One day Hannibal would ask Will how it was that he had managed to wreck him so, but for now he just clung, drinking in the sounds and smells of the man above him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to go up on Monday, but _someone_ just HAD to go and film in full costume where everyone could see him so any and all thinking was totally shut down.


	8. VIII. Soft

Hannibal had been a lot of things in the years Will had known him, and he'd come up with any number of words to describe him. Charming, of course. Controlled. Intelligent. Manipulative. Narcissistic in the extreme, and the very devil himself. Will was quite sure he knew everything there was to know about the different facets of Hannibal Lecter's personality. But in the six months since the day they'd fallen from the cliff, he'd shown an entirely different side. And it wasn't that Will didn't love the Hannibal from before that night; he wouldn't have been there, put himself into that situation if he didn't, as much as he had loathed himself for it. And it wasn't that that version of Hannibal had disappeared. He was still there, as insufferable and appealing as ever.

It was just … it had started that night. Will had thought it was a heat of the moment thing, the way Hannibal had looked at him, they way they'd held each other. He'd spoken so softly, so reverently, and Will had felt his resolve wavering as he melted into the embrace. But he'd _known_ that it wasn't the real Hannibal.

Six months had taught Will how very wrong he was.

The look in Hannibal eyes hadn't left, not even during the worst of the fever and pain, not even when they'd argued about where to go, whether they should run at all. His touches had been gentle, even compared with the careful ways he'd touched Will in the past. When he'd been taking care of Will's facial wound, he'd ghosted his fingers over Will's skin, the look on his face leaving it clear to Will that Hannibal could scarcely believe he was being given the opportunity to be with him. Will had to admit it was addictive.

And now that their relationship had changed once more, Will was stunned at the softness with which Hannibal kissed him. Butterfly kisses were left over his face, a worshipful look in his eyes whenever they would push into one another.

No, soft was not a word Will would have used to describe Hannibal before. But soft he was, and Will couldn't resist wrapping himself in Hannibal, burrowing himself away from the world.

 


	9. IX. Cold

There were a lot of things Will expected when they hit the water, but the sight of Hannibal's limp, lifeless body was not one of them. Nor was the feel of his skin when he finally hauled them out of the water. It was so blue, so _cold_ , even through Will's own burgeoning hypothermia.

“Open your eyes, you asshole,” he hissed as he lay Hannibal on his back, pressing his ear to his chest, to his lips, a calm sort of determination driving his actions. A profound relief threaded through him when he heard the faint fluttering of a heartbeat, and he clung to the relief, the hope, as though it were a tangible lifeline. There was no breath, however, no rising and falling of Hannibal's chest, and the small burst of heat that surrounded the tendril of relief wavered, threatening to extinguish itself in the harsh wind coming off the water.

“I don't think so,” Will said, sitting up and peering at Hannibal's face. “You don't get to leave me here alone, not after all of this.”

He leaned down, pressing his lips to Hannibal's, then readjusting to breathe life back into his lungs. It only took a few breaths and then Hannibal was coughing, choking, spluttering, icy water being expelled from his chest, bubbling up over blue lips to stream down his cheeks and sink into the sand. He sucked in air, a deep, shuddering breath, then coughed some more, wincing through the pain.

“Will,” he rasped, eyes fluttering open to look up at Will. That one word had always sounded like honey coming from Hannibal's mouth, the way his lips and tongue caressed the single syllable on its way to freedom, and even now, as battered and beaten as Hannibal was, it bore with it all those same sensations. The thread of warmth and relief flared brighter and Will laughed, entirely unable to channel his feelings in any other direction. He knew he was bordering on hysterical, knew he would have more feelings and thoughts to sort through in the days and weeks to come than he could possibly comprehend, but right now, collapsed on the sand beside Hannibal Lecter, all he could feel was freedom and joy.

He leaned forward again, pressed his lips to Hannibal's again. They were still cold, cold as ice, but there was life behind the chill. He didn't pull away until Hannibal hissed in pain, his arms automatically wrapping around his torso to protect the gunshot wound. Will grimaced in sympathetic pain. He sat up and looked around. It would take a lot of effort, maybe even more effort than either of them had in them to get away from here, but it was impossible for him not to try. He wrapped his arms around Hannibal's shoulders, burying his face into the frozen spot where Hannibal's neck and shoulders joined. He licked at the salt water pooled there and relished in the shiver that ran through Hannibal, knowing full well it had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the heat of his tongue on Hannibal's bare skin. He straightened then, gently helping Hannibal first to sit upright, and then, slowly, to stand.

They had a long walk ahead of them.

 


	10. X. Without

It had been a year since the trial ended, a year since the door had been locked behind Hannibal, keeping him forever from Will's sight. He'd felt so empty at first, drifting through each day with nothing to keep him grounded. He told himself he was happy, though, that he was just adjusting to not having Hannibal's influence in his life, in much the same way an addict has to adjust to not having their drug of choice around any more.

He pushed his way through it, met a woman. Molly was wonderful, soft and light and fun and everything Hannibal wasn't. He loved her, he really did. She should have been the perfect antidote, but somehow, even on their wedding day, there was a hole inside him, dark and blood-filled and throbbing. It didn't get smaller, the longer they were together. It didn't fade when they made love, it couldn't be ignored when they woke up in each others arms. If anything, the longer Will spent trying to force Hannibal from his mind, the stronger, deeper, more intrusive his influence became, until eventually he had to admit what he had never been able to before: it wasn't Hannibal's influence at all. It was his own overpowering _need_ for the other man, a need so strong, so all consuming that even Molly with her sparkling eyes and soft hands couldn't hope to repel. Even if she knew about the darkness inside Will there would be nothing she could do about it, and she didn't know. If nothing else, Will could at least try to spare her ever being exposed to _that_. Hannibal was locked away, Will was bound, and Molly was safe.

Until she wasn't, until Jack arrived on his doorstep and began reeling Will back in. He could feel the hook, could feel himself being pulled along, and yet he could do nothing, _wanted_ to do nothing to stop it. He put up a token protest, but the mere _thought_ of working his way back to seeing Hannibal had his heart pounding and his mouth watering. He knew when he said goodbye to Molly that it was for good. Even if he couldn't find a way to see Hannibal – and that was something that was less than unlikely; Jack would allow him anything, even if that something was Hannibal, he was so desperate – even then, his mask was cracking. He could try to hold it together, but he didn't want to. He wanted Hannibal. They'd been apart, without each other for far too long, and as much as he loved Molly, she could only ever be a replacement, a substitute for the one thing, the one person he was drawn to, and she was too good for that.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter,” he said, his eyes raking over the prison jumpsuit-clad body. His heart thumped. The hole within him began to close.

 


	11. XI. Inspiration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the irony of the prompt "inspiration" taking so long to actually give me any XD
> 
> 'Tis but a short wee drabble, but I'm hopeful the upcoming prompts will prove a little easier.

Hannibal told himself he'd only started killing again to prove to the world that he was still there, to make sure _no one_ took credit for his work. He told himself that, but if there was one thing that was true of Hannibal, it was that he knew himself far better than most people could ever hope to know themselves. And he knew when he was lying.

What he didn't know was what, exactly, this fascination with Will Graham was. His mind was unique, that was of no doubt. Hannibal had never come across anyone quite like him before, and he was certain that with the right coaxing and conditioning he could prove malleable, that he could release the thing that slithered within in a beautiful display of radiance. But that wasn't it, not quite.

His physical appearance, perhaps. It was true, Will really was quite stunning, but beautiful people were everywhere, and they'd never inspired in Hannibal this level of enchantment. It didn't stop him from occasionally thinking of him, imagining running his hands through his hair, thinking of running his fingertips across those red lips or brushing his palm on Will's ever-present stubble. He certainly didn't refrain from imagining the taste of his skin as he scraped his teeth over his earlobe. But as pleasant as those journeys through his imagination were, they still didn't explain the the hold Will was beginning to develop over him.

And then one day it was all so crystal clear. It was all of those things, carefully wrapped up in a box of understanding. This beautiful man with his unique mind, could see him, understand him. He didn't seem to realise what he was seeing, not yet, but that would come with time. Hannibal knew it would; it was inevitable, just as the sea pounding away at the cliffs would inevitably wear them away. Hannibal stood inside the palace of his mind, and Will was at the window, peering in, when no one else had ever so much as breached the gates.

And so Hannibal created as he was inspired, pushing further, calling out to Will in the only way he had available to him, knowing that one day Will would open the door and join him.

 


	12. XII. You

Hannibal and Will strolled the streets of Havana, sunglasses and hats on, hands in pockets. It was a drastically different scenario from any either of them had ever imagined, either for themselves or each other, yet neither of them could think of anywhere else they would rather be.

“It's nice here,” Will remarked, more for something to say than anything else.

“Do you miss your home?” Hannibal replied, his eyes turning to focus all of his attention on Will.

“Yes and no. I don't miss the cold.”

“What do you miss?”

“Are you talking about the home you remember in Baltimore, or the one you never saw for yourself?”

Will didn't intentionally refrain from using the words 'with my wife', or 'with Molly'. It didn't mean that either of them were unaware of the omission, however.

“Either one.”

“I miss my dogs.”

The ghost of a remembered conversation

_I won't miss you_

echoed between them, but those wounds were closed, only the memory of pain flickering through them now.

“We can get -”

“No,” interrupted Will. He knew full well where Hannibal's sentence was going. “Not until we're more settled.”

“And if we are never settled?”

“Then I'll continue to miss my dogs.”

Hannibal didn't answer. They walked in silence. Predictably, though, Hannibal couldn't stay silent for long.

“Do you regret your decision?”

  
Will laughed, genuine laughter touched with a hint of disbelief.

“Which one?”

“Any of them. Joining the FBI. Allowing Jack to convince you to see me as your psychiatrist.”

“I did, once.”

“No longer?”

Will shrugged, a wry smile still on his face.

“I _should_ regret them. There are a lot of things I should regret. Some things I wish were done differently, but I can't change them now. All I can do is live with what I have.”

“You sound resigned.”

“Not resigned. Pragmatic.”

“You wish things were different.”

It wasn't a question that Hannibal asked. It was a statement. His voice was calm, flat, even, but even still, Will could hear the note of – not quite sadness behind it, but _something_. Melancholy. Disappointment. Something in that vein. Maybe all of them combined into one tiny little thread that should have gone unnoticed, if it had been anyone but Hannibal, to anyone but Will.

“Hey,” Will said, grabbing Hannibal's arm and pulling him into an empty side alley. “I don't want to change anything. Sometimes I think we could have taken an easier route to get here, but...” he trailed off, not completely certain where he was going. He only realised he was still holding Hannibal's biceps when he noticed Hannibal staring intently at his hands.

“If I could, I would give you anything in the world,” Hannibal said quietly.

“You,” Will answered. “I only want you.”

 


	13. XIII. Confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all sorts of ridiculous, but hey! It was kinda fun to write.

“I don't understand.”

“What is there to understand?” Will asked, looping the ropes into a neat coil.

“I don't understand why you feel the need to have me learn this.”

“C'mon, Hannibal. You can't possibly think I'm going to sail us around the entire world by myself. You're learning, okay?”

Hannibal sighed.

“We're not sailing around the world, Will. We're barely going to be on the water for two days.”

“Yeah, and when you get it into your head again to kill someone, or you get bored with the scenery, or I don't know, you decide this town just doesn't have _quite_ the right tablecloth fabrics for you, you'll be insisting we pack up and leave again.”

“That's hardly fair, Will,” Hannibal said. “I've never left somewhere because of the tablecloth fabrics.”

“Give it time,” Will muttered, though he didn't even try to keep it out of the range of Hannibal's hearing.

“And if we're keeping score,” he continued, choosing to ignore Will's interjection, “I'm the one who does all the driving when we're on land. Which is far more often that we're at sea.”

“Only because you never _let_ me drive!” Will retorted.

“That's because -”

“I swear to god, Hannibal, if you bring up that one small incident again, one that only happened because we were _actively bleeding to death_ , I might just strangle you in your sleep.”

Hannibal decided to err on the side of caution and wisdom and refrained from arguing any further. The way Will was subconsciously waving his finger in Hannibal's face – Hannibal thought it was subconscious, at least – showed that Will was entirely serious about this venture. In truth, he was looking forward to having Will show him how to sail. There was something more than a little appealing about watching Will dance over the deck, leaning over, carrying things, showing off his now well defined arm muscles, to say nothing of the way whenever Hannibal would feign confusion and ineptitude over the variety of knots he needed to know, Will would come up behind him and guide his hands as the ropes made the deft curls they need to hold tight.

He was reasonably certain Will was just as deliberately overlooking the fact that Hannibal had tied more than his fair share of knots over the years, of many and varied types. Will had personally seen his handiwork, even back when he didn't know it was Hannibal who had done it.

“Are you sure,” he began, unable to resist the urge to continue the game, “that we aren't better suited to our respective strong points? I cook, you sail.”

“Hannibal,” Will said flatly, the look on his face more than just a bit unimpressed. He folded his arms in front of him, his hip jutting just the way Hannibal liked it.

“Will?” he asked, allowing the same feigned bemused confusion to colour his tone.

“You have forced me to learn untold numbers of cooking techniques, have you not?”

“Forced? I merely ask if you would like to. You are free to accept or decline my invitation as you see fit.”

Will's fingers began drumming on his arms. Hannibal wondered how long it would be, or what he would have to say, to get his foot tapping as well. It didn't seem like it would take much.

“You generally begin by implying that I will only get to eat whatever I prepare. Meaning if I don't learn some new way of chopping up your onions, I don't get fed.”

“I would never starve you, my darling Will,” Hannibal said, aghast but also highly amused that his hints had been received as intended. Not that his intention actually went so far as to _actually_ withhold anything from Will. All Will ever had to do was say please and Hannibal would crawl on the floor to sit at his feet. Not that he had any intention whatsoever of letting Will know just how defeated he was. He bit his lip to stop the small smile that was trying its best to creep over his face, but judging by the way Will's eyes narrowed, he had been just a split second too late.

“Suddenly _I'm_ the one who understands,” he said, while Hannibal schooled his face back to innocent befuddlement.

“Understand what?”

“You're bored. And you're winding me up because of it.”

Hannibal kept his face still, though internally he was relieved that Will still hadn't _quite_ managed to work it out.

“Not at all,” he said, though perhaps Will did have a point.

“Come here,” said Will, the undisguised order sending a thrill through Hannibal. He complied, stepping closer until Will unfolded his arms and grabbed Hannibal's shirt. He pulled him closer, until their faces were close enough for their breath to mingle and Hannibal grew lost in Will's eyes. Hannibal could feel his cock stirring, the longer Will held him close, his eyes hard and flinty, their lips close but not quite touching.

“Learn to tie the fucking knots,” he said, his voice a low growl, “and maybe we'll see if we can't find some other uses for them.”

Hannibal nodded. Play time was well and truly over. It was time for a new game to begin.

 


	14. XIV. Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set between Rôti & Relevés. Hannibal gives Will a bed bath.

Hannibal sat in the chair beside the bed, looking down at the body stretched out upon it. He had passed Alana on his way in, as she left to go home.

“He hasn't woken, yet,” she said as she shifted her bag on her shoulder. “His temperature is starting to come down, but...”

Hannibal heard the unspoken doubts and worries in her voice, and promised to keep an eye on Will while he was there. He didn't give any clue as to his own interest, in either man or the illness. They had said their goodbyes, and exchanged promises to contact the other if there was any change.

Hannibal wasn't surprised that the man before him still slumbered. He wasn't surprised by the flush that highlighted Will's otherwise pale face. He wasn't surprised by how drained he looked. Nothing about Will in this moment surprised him. Nothing except the effect he had on Hannibal, even now. Hannibal _yearned_. He'd never yearned for anything, or anyone before, and yet here he was, dealing with a whole new set of unexpected emotions and desires. A small part of him even tugged at his mind, trying to convince him to stop this experiment, to suggest to the doctors that maybe encephalitis might be something worth investigating. He brushed it away irritably, focusing instead on the sight of the unconscious man on the bed. His nostrils widened slightly as he inhaled, his eyes closing as he sifted through the smells.

Abruptly he got up, making his way to the nurses station. He made his enquiries, requested that they get him some supplies, and made his way back to the room with loaded arms.

He set the bowl of warm – hot, really - water on the beside table, soap and cloth in hand. They were standard issue hospital supplies; nothing like what he would like to use, but still, they were better than nothing and he didn't have time to travel home to get his own things. Carefully he soaked the cloth, rubbing the smallest amount of soap and gently, oh so gently, he began to wash Will. He began with his face, softly wiping the remnants of the cold, clammy sweat that had been building over the day. His hands traced over Will's jaw, along his neck. Hannibal took care not to wake Will, to remain as clinical and methodical as he could, but there was something about Will – had _always_ been something about him – that made its way into the tiniest crack in Hannibal's armour. He found himself stopping from time to time, looking at Will's face as it relaxed from the subtle tautness it had been twisted by into something peaceful, restful. He crossed the cloth across Will's forehead more often than was strictly necessary, enjoying the quiet thrill it gave him to watch Will grow ever more still. He wondered when Will's feelings had become important to him in their own right. He wondered when, exactly, that tiny little voice that continued to clamour at him had even grown loud enough to hear.

“What are you doing?”

Will's eyes fluttered open as Hannibal traced the cloth down his stubbled cheek.

“Washing your face. I had thought to give you a full bed bath, if you think you would be okay with that.”

“What?”

Will blinked then frowned, his voice raspy and his mind clearly still not caught up.

“You shot Abel Gideon. And then collapsed as a result of your fever. You really should have remained at my house, as I suggested.”

“Is he dead?”

“No.” Hannibal sat up a little straighter, folding the cloth and placing it on the edge of the bowl. He was pleased more than he could say when Will's face crumpled a little in disappointment before hurriedly clearing to a blank expression.

“Alana?” he managed to croak out.

“Doctor Bloom is alive and well, and perfectly safe, thanks to you.”

“Good thing I didn't follow your advice, then.”

“Perhaps it is.”

They sat quietly for a moment, before Will broke the silence.

“Why were you washing me?”

“You needed to be cleaned. Your fever, combined with your escapades, have left you rather covered in sweat. It didn't seem like you had the time or energy to take care of that yourself.”

“You're saying I smell,” said Will flatly.

“Not at all, though the potential for that to develop is there. If you'd prefer to shower yourself, you'll need to wait until you're more steady on your feet.”

Will sat motionless. Hannibal began to wonder if he'd heard him at all.

“Should I even ask why you want to wash me?”

“You are my friend, Will. We do things to help our friends, when they are unable to help themselves.”

The small flushes of red, caused by Will's fever, grew brighter and wider. Hannibal knew it was not a result of Will's illness.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, you can give me a bed bath. But it is never to be spoken of again, okay? As if this whole thing isn't embarrassing enough. I don't need people knowing my psychiatrist had to wash me because I stunk but was too weak to actually do anything about it.”

“Will,” Hannibal said sharply. “There is nothing at all to be ashamed of. You saved Alana Bloom's life, at great risk to your own health. It is the least I can do, as your _friend_ ,” and he made sure to emphasise that, over the more impersonal term Will had chosen, “to help you heal.”

Will looked at him, searching for something. Hannibal gazed back at him, that same nagging warmth tugging at his attention. He ignored it. Whatever Will was looking for, he seemed to find it because he smiled and looked away.

“I'm all yours,” he said, the words tickling at Hannibal's core. The little growing voice grew louder still. He turned, taking the cloth and soaking it once more.

“Remove your arms from your gown,” he instructed, forcing himself back into clinician mode. Will complied, leaving the sheet covering everything from his waist down. Hannibal stood, washing Will briskly but carefully, his hands running over the length of Will's arms, across the breadth of his chest. It was one of those rare moments when Hannibal's mind quieted, all thoughts and plans and imaginings halted in favour of focusing on these few simple motions, on this strangely quiet closeness between them.

It didn't take long until he was done, the cloth deposited back in the bowl.

“Thanks,” said Will, his voice oddly thick.

“Has it helped?” Hannibal asked. His fingers itched to return; not to touch Will for touches sake, but to see a return of that relaxed, peaceful expression on Will's face. To help him. To feel _for_ him.

“It. It did.”

He looked at Hannibal again, and once again Hannibal did not look away. It was only Will shivered, just slightly, that Hannibal was able to break the connection. He picked up a towel, helping Will to dry the small amounts of moisture that still clung to his skin.

“I'll get you a clean gown,” Hannibal said. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that Will had profoundly disturbed his equilibrium as he stood, bowl and cloth, towel and soap in hand. Will said nothing, instead choosing to pull his sheet back up over his chest. Hannibal turned and walked to the door.

“Thank you.”

Hannibal stopped, not looking back at Will. There was something in his voice that prevented it. Instead he just whispered back, “You're welcome,” and continued out of the room. Inside him, that little voice grew once more. It slid into the tiny cracks in Hannibal's armour, the same ones Will had fallen into, and there it stayed.

 


	15. XV. Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal discuss that night on the cliff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one only loosely fits the prompt, but it sort of developed a life of its own :P

“What did you feel, standing on the cliff that night?”

The question seemed to come out of the blue, though Will knew, as with everything coming from Hannibal, that it was far from spontaneous. He looked up from the magazine he was barely reading, looking at Hannibal blankly. He was acutely aware of what had sparked that particular train of thought. It wasn't, as one may have thought, that it was the first anniversary of them _taking_ _the_ _plunge,_ as Hannibal liked to call it; though that particular night was not very far away. Rather, it was the anniversary of the day Will had given in and set foot in Hannibal's cell, setting in play a series of events that deep down Will had _known_ would lead them here. He maybe didn't know the specifics of where they would end up, or how, but he had known from the moment he made his decision that the quiet, place-holder life he had set up had reached its natural end.

“Feel? What did _you_ feel?” he answered, knowing he was being needlessly surly and not caring one iota.

“I felt a great many things. Among other emotions, I felt more at peace than I think I have ever felt in my life.”

“Before _or_ since.”

Hannibal didn't respond to his barb, nor did Will expect him to. He never had, really, not in the entire time Will had known him. Not unless it was expected of the role he was playing, and they both well knew that Hannibal was done with playing any type of role around Will. They sat in silence, then, Will still in something approaching a sulk, and Hannibal looking faintly smug. Eventually Hannibal picked up his book, and Will felt even more shut out. Not that he _really_ had anyone to blame but himself. He was the one who made the decision to go back to see Hannibal. He was the one who concocted the ridiculous plan to get him out of prison. It didn't matter that back then he _thought_ it was so he could kill Hannibal. It didn't matter that the moment they were free he knew he was lost, knew he could never do it. It didn't matter that holding Hannibal, the two of them blood-soaked and on the verge of death, was the most euphoric thing he'd ever experienced. None of it mattered, not the good or the bad. All that mattered was that he was with Hannibal, and _that_ is what left him infuriated. Because Will Graham had _never_ needed someone the way he needed Hannibal, and to hell with the thought that it had was approaching a year of them being on the run.

“I'm going to bed,” he said abruptly, standing up and dropping his magazine on the table. It was a fishing magazine, one that Hannibal had picked up for him, one of those irritatingly thoughtful gestures he made on an almost daily basis, while it was all Will could do to get his head on straight. He stared at it, vaguely acknowledging Hannibal's earnest 'good night, Will'. In a sudden fit of pique he picked up the magazine and slowly tore the cover off. He looked up at Hannibal, meeting his eyes, and just as slowly began ripping the pages, one by one, away from the spine. Hannibal's face didn't change, and his eyes didn't leave Will's. It was only once the last page fluttered down to the floor that Hannibal spoke.

“Is there something you would like to share with me, Will?”

“You choose today to ask me how I felt?” he snapped. “Today. It couldn't have been on the day itself, or even on _its_ anniversary _._ ” His voice was rising, and he couldn't find it in him care at all.

“Why should it not be today?”

“You know as well as I do that today is the day we _reunited_.” The word twisted in his mouth, contorting until he spat it out.

“For a second time. Don't forget us finally meeting in Italy.”

“You're insufferable, you know that?”

Hannibal didn't answer. He closed his book, fingers deftly sliding a bookmark between the pages, and he shifted in his chair, facing Will more fully. It was such a _psychiatrist_ pose, and Will was suddenly very glad he didn't have anything to throw, because that's exactly what he wanted to do.

“Will.”

“ _Haa-_ nnibal.”

Christ, he just couldn't stop being petulant and the worst part, the very worst part, was he had no idea _why_.

“Would you like to tell me what is upsetting you? This is unlike you. Unlike any version of you that I've seen.”

Will sighed, then slumped.

“I have no idea,” he confessed. “I just … I need. I need _something._ ”

“You have cabin fever? We've barely ventured out these long months.”

“Yes. And no. I can deal with that, I think.”

“This all seems to have been sparked by my asking you about your feelings. Do you still feel uncomfortable about where you life has taken you?”

The need to throw out a caustic remark flared, and Will had to literally bite his tongue to keep from saying something he might end up regretting. It was noticed by Hannibal.

“I see,” he said calmly. “You still have unresolved issues.”

“I _don't_ have unresolved issues,” Will hissed, despite the mounting evidence to the contrary. Sure enough, Hannibal's eyebrows raised. Will flopped down into his chair again, rubbing his hands over his face. “Fine. Maybe I do. I just don't know what they are.”

“Perhaps we can find out if you were to answer my initial question. How _did_ you feel, that night?”

“Are you asking for me, or because you get off on watching me like this?”

The brief flicker of a smile crossed Hannibal's face.

“Does it have to be one or the other?” he asked, then smiled more widely. “I have no desire to see you anything other than comfortable and happy, Will. I assure you, this is for your benefit, not mine.”

Will snorted, but didn't argue.

“I felt...” he trailed off, not having any real idea where he was going with his sentence. In truth, he'd deliberately not examined his feelings that night, or any night since. They weren't far below the surface, however, and now that he was looking he could see their outlines quite clearly, if not their finer details.

“You became who you are meant to be. It was a birth, of sorts.” Hannibal's voice was calm, soothing. It reminded Will of when they'd first met. He might be an asshole of the highest order, but there was no denying that Hannibal was good at achieving whatever he set his mind to. And that included getting Will to acknowledge whatever it was that he _needed_ to acknowledge. “It's unsurprising that you may have moments where you struggle to deal with the enormous changes you went through.”

“Were they really though? Changes, I mean. Like you said, I've always had it in me. No matter how much I tried to pretend I didn't.”

“Having it in you is one thing. Casting off from the moorings of your constructed morality is something entirely different. That has always been your safety, and I have been lax in not offering you guidance.”

Will shook his head.

“No, it's not that. I mean, that might be an exacerbating feature, but it's not the core of it.”

“Knowing that it is not the core implies that you know what the core _is_.”

Will started to shake his head, stopped. He nodded instead.

“I felt,” he began again, this time more sure of where he was going. “I felt happy. More than happy. There was joy, almost too much for me to cope with. There _was_ too much for me to cope with.”

“And so you threw us over the cliff, leaving our fate for Fate to decide.”

“It sounds so simple, thought out, when you say it like that.”

“Feelings are rarely simple.”

“And even more rarely thought out,” Will said wryly. “What would you have done, if I'd died and you hadn't?” he asked. It was a question he'd thought a lot, but never voiced.

“I would have followed you. Much as I follow you now.”

Will wasn't surprised, and yet he was. It was an odd feeling.

“Does it trouble you, to know you are loved by a monster?”

And there it was, the sucker punch that Will had known was coming but had no idea when. He remained silent. He'd thought, if and when the day finally came that Hannibal brought it up, that he'd know exactly what to say, that the words would somehow magically appear. In his imaginings he'd sometimes been flippant in his reply, sometimes caring, sometimes harsh. It went a long way towards demonstrating his own inability to work out exactly what it was he felt. Whatever he'd imagined, though, it had always revolved around his hatred, his ill-recognised love.

“You're not a monster,” is what eventually came from his lips, surprising both himself and Hannibal. It didn't matter that the statement was demonstrably false; it was what he _believed._ God help him, he didn't think Hannibal was a monster.

“Others would disagree with -”

“I don't give a shit about others,” Will said vehemently. “And even if they're right … you're _mine._ ”

Hannibal swallowed, though his expression did not change.

“It doesn't bother you, then?”

“No.” Will took a step towards Hannibal, then another. “No, it doesn't.”

“And the joy you say you felt?” Hannibal's voice seemed thicker. He had begun flicking his fingertips together, a gesture that seemed to Will to be entirely subconscious, and entirely unlike Hannibal.

_Good_ , he thought, taking another step.

“I still feel it.”

“And that made you angry?” Hannibal licked his lips. Will watched in interest, then stepped closer once more. He could reach out and touch Hannibal now, if he wanted to.

“I didn't understand it. Not until now. You always were good at getting me to understand myself.”

“I'm just doing my job.”

Will huffed out a laugh, narrowed his eyes.

“That's the thing though. It's _not_ your job, is it? Not any more.”

Hannibal didn't answer. He didn't move a muscle. His fingers had stopped their nervous tapping, his eyes were fixed on Will's, unblinking. Will wondered what he was thinking.

“No,” he replied, voice low and soft. “No, I suppose it isn't.”

“And do you know what made me happiest, that night?”

Hannibal shook his head.

“Do you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“You. The way you could have given up, left me to the dragon -”

“There is no universe, no reality in which that was an option for me to take. Not even hypothetically.”

Will smiled.

“Regardless,” he continued, looking down at Hannibal who was looking back at him with something akin to worship on his face, and wasn't _that_ a thing to behold, “you didn't. You helped. You put yourself in the path of a bullet you knew was coming. And when it was all over, all I could see was you. And you held me.”

“And I would again,” Hannibal breathed. “In a heartbeat. All you need do is ask.”

Will hadn't thought there would ever be a time Hannibal would wear his emotions so openly, and yet here they were.

“You've helped me again.” He wondered if he should apologise for the magazine, for trying to pick a fight. Somehow he doubted Hannibal cared, or even remembered it in this moment. He let his gaze roam over Hannibal. It seemed futile to try to deny himself any longer. They'd been together, hiding and healing, for close to a year now. It was time.

“I'm not the only one to be loved by a monster,” he said softly. Hannibal didn't reply, but he didn't need to. His eyes told Will all he needed to know. “I want you to hold me whenever _you_ want to.”

“I might never let you go.”

“That's fine with me,” Will whispered, holding out his hand.

 


	16. XVI. Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is struck by nightmares.

Hannibal knew exactly the moment it started. Two months to the day after they fell from the cliff, was also the day Will had left the house for the first time, under his own steam and completely alone. Chiyoh had moved on the day before, saying she had done all she could for them. Hannibal doubted they would see her again. But that didn't mean they didn't need supplies, and that didn't mean that Will wasn't feeling the effects of being confined for such a long period of time. Hannibal couldn't blame him, really. He would have far preferred to be anywhere but this isolated safe house, unable to walk more than a dozen steps without his energy levels being depleted. And so Hannibal had watched Will walk out the door, and forced his trepidation down deep where he didn't have to acknowledge it.

When Will had returned later that evening, hours after he had said he would come back, Hannibal hadn't been able to work out which of the storm of emotions flooding through him was the dominant one. Relief, fear, anger – they were all there, and all fighting for their turn. He didn't speak to Will when he arrived. He merely helped put the things away, as best he could, then retreated to his bedroom without a word.

That was the night it started.

He awoke in darkness, sweating and panting, his heart racing, but entirely unable to remember the nightmare that had forced him from his sleep. There was no sound from the room down the hall, so he hadn't woken Will, at least. He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face and willing his heart to settle back into its normal rhythm. That achieved, he lay back down, but while he had managed to settle himself somewhat, the fear still coursed through him. Sleep did not come back for him, that night.

The next morning he dragged himself down to breakfast. Will was perched on a chair at the counter, chewing on a piece of toast while reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee half drunk near his elbow. He looked up as Hannibal entered the kitchen, doing a double take that would have been comical in any other situation.

“You look like shit,” he remarked. Hannibal simply looked at him, still without speaking, as Will took another bite of his toast and looked away.

“I didn't sleep well.” Hannibal hadn't intended to answer him, though he hadn't intended _not_ to, either. He was struggling to keep hold of any coherent thoughts. The terror that had kept him awake all night had abated, but the chaos it left in its wake was surely going to take its toll. Will looked over at him.

“How's your...” He waved in the general direction of Hannibal's stomach, the bullet wound now covered by pink and shiny scar tissue.

“It's fine,” Hannibal answered curtly. He chose to disregard Will for the moment, tried just as hard to disregard the low level anxiety that still bubbled through him as he pulled eggs from the fridge. The silence between them grew frosty, and Hannibal was both relieved and worried when Will disappeared out to the garden for the rest of the morning.

Hannibal himself tried, in vain as it turned out, to get some rest, but his mind kept wandering. If he tried, he could almost catch a flash of whatever it was he had dreamed about, but every time he concentrated on it it would slide from his mind's grasp, too slippery to stay for any hope of identification.

The day dragged. Will came in for lunch, which helped to distract Hannibal and ease the constant fear that a shadow was about to fall on him. He made an effort to crack the ice that was forming between them before it could establish itself any further. Will smiled, and told him he'd make dinner to give Hannibal a chance to rest.

Hannibal went to bed early again, unable to keep his eyes without extreme effort through dinner. Will noticed and told him to go before he passed out, that he would head into town the next morning if Hannibal told him what medications he needed. Hannibal could not work out why that thought left him disquieted, rather than reassured. Regardless, sleep came for him quickly, if not for long.

Once again he awoke, adrenaline coursing through him, only this time he knew he had been trying to reach for something, to catch it, but it always fell from his grasp. He glanced over at the clock, blinking until the numbers came into focus. Barely an hour had passed since he had lain his head down. As squint towards the gap under the closed door showed him that Will must have gone to bed himself, if the lack of light was anything to go by. He lifted a hand in an echo of his actions in the dream, surprised when it shook. He snatched it back. If he couldn't see it, it wasn't happening. The thought pulled a mirthless laugh from him. Oh, how far he had fallen. Still, he had few doubts that it was anything more than his ravaged body struggling to heal itself. He lay back down, tugging the blankets up to his ears. Sleep did not come for him again that night, either.

The next morning it was a struggle to walk down the steps to the kitchen. His head spun, every joint ached, and despite all his efforts, his heart still raced while his body remained firmly entrenched in the flight or fight response it had found itself in. He was aware that he hadn't been able to summon the energy to shave, either yesterday or today, nor even so much as wash his hair. It seemed that the way he felt should have been painfully obvious on the outside, but Will gave no indication. Perhaps he was holding it together better than he had thought.

“I'm going into town today, remember?” Will asked once Hannibal had sat down with his breakfast. Hannibal just nodded, looking down at eggs that had seemed so enticing while he was making them, but now seemed not to be worth the effort of actually eating.

“Do you need me to get anything?”

Hannibal looked up at Will, still bleary eyed. For a moment he couldn't remember what Will had asked.

“No,” he answered finally, once the memory had returned. “Will you be long?”

Will shrugged. “I don't know. I just need to get out of here.”

Hannibal's face fell. It was something else he'd always had total control over but now found himself unable to. Will looked away.

“I'll be back tonight, okay? If I'm late, don't wait up. You look like you still need rest.”

Hannibal nodded. It was all he could bring himself to do.

True to his word, Will stayed out all day. Hannibal didn't eat. He tried to rest in the small patch of sun that came in through the living room window, but every time he started to drift off his body would jolt itself back into wakefulness. His eyes wandered to the driveway all day, hoping that soon Will would return. It was becoming painfully apparent to him that his decline in equilibrium was acutely tied to Will's presence.

When he went to bed Will still wasn't back. He prepared himself for another sleepless night, but he was dragged back under the veil the moment his head lay on the pillow.

This time he remembered every second of the nightmare that tormented him.

They were falling, sailing through the air towards the freezing sea so far beneath them. He held Will in his arms, but his wounds meant his strength was failing him. Will was torn from him, and he hit the surface of the water alone. Deep down he plunged, before fighting his way back to the air, his lungs burning and one word coursing through his mind.

_Will._

He broke the surface, looking desperately for Will. His strength had somehow returned and he spun in circles, searching and searching.

_There._ There he was, bobbing motionless only a few feet from Hannibal. He began swimming, long powerful strokes towards Will, but no matter how fast he swam, Will remained just out of reach. He floated on his back, his eyes glassy and staring, the waves that pounded around them, that constantly tried to push Hannibal under, somehow not touching Will at all. His neck was bent at a sickening, unnatural angle. Hannibal recognised the injury well; he was a master at inducing it. It had never, not once, had the effect on him that it did now.

“Will!” he bellowed, before a wave pulled him under, and suddenly he was on top of the cliff again. They held each other, and Will looked up at him. Their eyes held, Will _pushed._ Hannibal fell, his arms outstretched while Will looked down and laughed. He hit the water again, sinking down, down, down, his lungs burning and still all he could see was Will, watching him and laughing as he drowned. His eyes closed, and when he opened them again they were, once more, atop the cliff.

“Will, no,” he tried to plead, but his throat was blocked, his voice didn't work, and Will pulled them over again. This time when they surfaced they were both still alive, still conscious, but Will had once more been ripped from his arms. They swam towards each other, waves buffeting them and driving them back, but reach one another they did. It meant nothing though, when Will was torn from him again and again, until they reached the shore, Hannibal dragging Will behind him. He threw him onto the rocky ground, tried to breath for him, begged for his heart to start beating, but it didn't. The tide surged, pulling Will's body away from him.

Hannibal woke with a cry this time, tears streaking down his cheeks. His arms felt so _empty_. Light seeped through the crack in the door and he stumbled out of bed, wanting to reassure himself that Will was still with him. He staggered down the hallway, past Will's empty bedroom, and down the stairs. There was still no Will. Hannibal looked outside, peering into the darkness only to find the car still gone. Will was not there. He flopped into a chair, unwilling to return to his room, to return to the horrors his mind continually threw at him. The night passed slowly. Hannibal lulled in and out of true consciousness, though not once did he fall back into true sleep. His body trembled faintly in exhaustion while his mind tried desperately to repair itself. It seemed a futile effort.

Eventually the sun crept over the horizon, molten honey light spilling over everything, and bringing with it the sound of a car engine.

Hannibal watched as Will got out of the car, stretching once he had and looking over the house. He marched with purpose towards the house, before sliding the key silently into the lock. He opened the door quietly, then carefully closed it again with the quietest of _snicks_. The way he jumped in fright when he turned and saw Hannibal sitting and watching would almost have been worth it, once.

“Jesus,” he said. “What are you doing up so early?”

He walked over to Hannibal. Once in front of him he stood and looked over him, his eyes narrowing.

“Did you even go to bed?” he asked accusingly.

“Briefly.”

Will watched him, his face inscrutable. Hannibal wondered what was going on in his head. Once he would have been able to read Will with relative ease, but those days were long gone. Even if they weren't, he suspected his exhaustion would have left him far beyond being able to now.

“I wondered if you were gone,” he blurted out when Will didn't say anything. “I had hoped you would let me know, if and when you did.”

Will looked guilty then, his eyes darting away from Hannibal.

“I'm sorry,” he started, then faltered. Hannibal wasn't sure he wanted to hear whatever it was Will was building up to.

“I didn't mean to stay gone so long,” Will continued, still looking out the window. “I just … It was nice, being out in the open, no other people around. I was on my way back here, then I went past the turn off. Seemed like I might as well keep going. There was a spot a few miles from here, where it felt like no one had ever been before. I guess I lost track of time.”

“You're not beholden to me. Or anyone any longer, for that matter.”

“Are you okay?” Will asked, ignoring Hannibal's words. “You don't look well.”

He looked genuinely concerned. Hannibal didn't know if he could, or even should, keep things from Will. He'd lost that ability, it felt. Still, he didn't respond.

That day marked a shift. Hannibal was acutely aware of the way Will made sure to be in the same room as him, of the way he kept a careful eye on Hannibal. He didn't say anything, but Hannibal noticed the way Will took care of the chores that needed doing that day, from the washing up, to cooking their lunch and dinner.

After their dinner was finished, Will helped Hannibal up the stairs. Hannibal felt like he'd taken a huge backslide in his recovery, a sentiment Will seemed to share, though he couldn't possibly know the reason why. They said their goodnights, and retreated to their own bedrooms. Hannibal stood and stared at his bed. It seemed an enemy, now, some place that his body rebelled against going. He fought the feeling and lay down, his head swimming once he did. He didn't notice falling asleep, the swimming feeling transitioning seamlessly into the dream.

He screamed for Will, as his body was taken by the sea yet again, only have the man himself grasp him by the arm and pull him off the beach, and back into his bed.

Hannibal panted, his chest heaving and eyes wild, before he realised he truly was back in his bed. Will held his arm, his face concerned. More than concerned, really; it looked almost on the verge of frightened.

“Hannibal!” His voice was calm and steady, but firm.

“Will?” Hannibal asked. He was so confused, and couldn't work out _why_. As reality lay its blanket around him, however, he began to work it out. He must have yelled out in his sleep again. Along with the fear he had begun to expect, there was shame; shame at being seen as weak, as ineffective and victim to more sentimentality than he'd known since he was a child.

“Leave me,” he said gruffly, turning his head away.

“What's going on?” Will asked, ignoring his request. “You've been like this for days now, and it's making you sick again.”

“It was a nightmare, nothing more.”

“A nightmare that involved you screaming at me.”

“For you,” Hannibal corrected automatically before clamping his mouth shut.

“Hannibal,” Will said, his voice so soft and understanding, and just like that Hannibal folded.

“I keep dreaming that I lost you,” he whispered. “Over and over again, and each time there's nothing I can do to save you. Sometimes you don't die. Instead you watch me die and laugh.”

Will didn't say anything for a second. Hannibal didn't expect him to. It therefore came as something of a shock when Will pushed at him.

“Move over,” he ordered. Hannibal complied without question, shocked when Will climbed in to lie next to him. “Turn over,” was his next instruction and again, Hannibal did as he said, rolling onto his side, his back to Will.

Will rolled over, fitting himself behind Hannibal, one arm stretching around his torso, his legs slotting in behind Hannibal's. He felt cocooned, sheltered from the buffeting of his own mind.

“You haven't lost me,” Will whispered, his breath tickling the fine hairs on the back of Hannibal's neck, “and I'm not going anywhere. Especially not without you.”

His lips tickled at the nape of Hannibal's neck. Those same lips pressed the faintest of kisses to Hannibal's skin, shocking him and causing a flurry of goosebumps to spring up all the way from his scalp to his back.

“Never, okay?” Will whispered again. Hannibal nodded. He knew it was futile to try and speak. He grabbed Will's hand and pulled it to his chest, holding it tight. His eyes drifted shut.

He awoke the next morning to find Will sitting up in bed beside him. A cup of coffee sat still steaming on the bedside table. If he'd dreamed, he didn't remember any of it.

“Sleep well?” Will asked. Hannibal nodded mutely. He had. He knew why. Will reached over, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead.

“Have you ever thought of growing your hair? Or a beard?” he asked with a smile.

Hannibal could only smile back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to go a slightly different route for this one, since a typical horror story would just be a good night out for these two :P


	17. XVII. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Alana have a lot to discuss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This only loosely follows the prompt (again, oops) (but it still does!!), but I thought it'd be fun to run with a different POV this time :D

Visiting Alana for the first time after everything that happened was awkward, to say the least. It probably said a lot about Jack, and where he felt he stood, that it took months after those first few frantic days trying to find out what happened for him to actually do it. Six months, in fact, and even then it was only because Margot had turned up at his house one weekend morning, insisting that he do just that. They hadn't had much to say that first day, but they had left with an agreement to make this a weekly thing, a chance to touch base and see if either of their respective contacts had been able to find out anything.

It took a good eight weeks after that for them to relax with one another enough to begin chatting about other things. Alana laughed for the first time in his presence since that evening – since earlier than that, really, but that evening was the clearest, most obvious delineation between then and now that either of them could see – when he explained how Margot had arrived, as cool and collected as ever but determined not to leave until she had extracted the promise she needed from him.

“I can't say I blame her,” she said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Looking back, I can't have been fun to live with. I mean, she knew...” She trailed off for a moment, her eyes darkening slightly, the brightening once more with what Jack could tell was sheer force of effort. “She knew _them_ , knows what they are capable of, but she still held it all together. If it wasn't for her...”

“I understand,” answered Jack, and he did. He truly did. Once upon a time he had been just the same, would have been the same now. He would have relied on Bella to keep him grounded, to keep him from falling into obsession. He didn't have that any more. It was a conscious effort each and every day, one that had been indescribably difficult at first, but had grown a little more natural, a little easier each day.

They lapsed into silence, each of them staring into a different distance, but both following the same train of thought.

“Do you think we'll ever know why? I've searched and searched through everything I know – _thought_ I knew – about Will, and I just can't come up with an answer.”

Jack mulled over the question. He found himself thinking of a conversation with Rinaldo Pazzi, too many years ago now, but one that still came easily to mind. He'd thought of that conversation, and all it entailed, many times since then, and he still thought he was right.

“Will was always different,” he began, unsure of how Alana would take it. “We all knew that, and we let ourselves other him. You deliberately avoided being alone with him for the majority of the time you knew each other. I saw his use to me as a tool, and that's how I used him. The parts of him that we didn't see, or didn't _want_ to see, we avoided.”

Alana's gaze was now fixed on him. She looked disgruntled, but behind that he could see agreement. Alana was more than intelligent and self-aware enough to accept what he said as true.

“And then along came Hannibal,” she said. She sounded sad. Jack knew she blamed herself for what happened, blamed herself for being the one to introduce Hannibal to Will in the first place, but they all knew it wasn't her fault. She couldn't have known, not then, any more than any of the rest of them could have. Hell, if they were blaming people then Jack should take his own fair share of it. If he'd vetted Hannibal more thoroughly then surely _something_ would have come up. He knew, though, that that as futile as Alana blaming herself. Nothing would have come up, because Hannibal had made damn sure that there was nothing – _nothing_ – to find.

“Hannibal doesn't just tolerate all of Will's sides. He actively accepts and encourages them. _All_ of them. And I believe that Will accepts all of Hannibal's sides.”

“Do you – _can_ you – still believe it's all Hannibal's influence? That away from him Will wouldn't be so accepting?”

And there it was, the question to end all others. Jack had his own suspicions about the matter, and he wasn't convinced Alana was going to like them.

“I believe Hannibal had a lot of influence,” he said carefully. At first he thought Alana would let it lie. Her unfocused eyes certainly seemed to imply that she was skipping over it, but then she looked at him again.

“A lot?” she asked. “You don't believe it was all him?”

“Do you?” he asked. Will had once been open to suggestion because of his illness, but those days were long since over. Jack had had far too long to think over all of his interactions with Will, to figure out each and every moment he felt he'd been manipulated by him. There were far too many of them.

Alana looked angry, like she was about to launch into a tirade, but abruptly her shoulders slumped as her anger, her natural inclination to defend Will fled, leaving her deflated.

“No,” she said, her answer almost too quiet to hear.

Jack dug around in his bag, pulling out a slim folder. He'd debated whether or not to share the information it contained with Alana. One item had been important when it was obtained, but was no longer useful. The other...

He pulled out a couple of sheets of paper, stapled together at the corner.

“This is from Will's motel,” he began. “Remember when we thought Dolarhyde had killed himself?”

Alana nodded, her eyes narrowing in question as she took the offered pages.

“A week after they disappeared, the motel owner told us he'd seen something that night. A man slinking around. Apparently he didn't see how it could be relevant, despite the fact we were in the middle of a _very_ active search for a former federal agent _and_ two of the worst, most high profile serial killers this country has ever seen.”

He waited for her to read what the report said, to look at the grainy stills from the CCTV footage. He knew the moment she found it. Her eyes snapped back up to his.

“He was there. In Will's room.”

Jack nodded, rubbing his eyes in tiredness.

“With Will,” he said, continuing the story. “Will knew Dolarhyde was alive, _and he didn't tell us._ ”

Alana didn't say anything; she barely even moved.

“They spoke. And after that, once it was officially discovered by _someone else_ that Dolarhyde was still alive, Will came up with the plan to spring Hannibal. All of it was his idea, not Hannibal's.”

Alana took a deep breath, the paper in her fingers trembling faintly.

“That's not all,” Jack said. He slid out a small square of card from the folder, passing it over to Alana. Her eyes widened, and this time her hand flew to her mouth.

“Is this...?”

“It was sent to us three months after they disappeared. Turn it over.”

Alana did as he asked. He wondered if it was cruel, showing them to her, but if they were ever to find Will and Hannibal, she had to know everything. Her eyes closed, a tear falling down one perfectly made up cheek. The faint line it traced seemed to Jack to be the perfect metaphor. There was always a now, and a then, a before and an after, always with a crack delineating the two. _Always._ This was just another crack to add to Alana's collection.

“This is Will's handwriting,” she said, her voice dull. Jack could only nod, accompanied by a murmured 'yes' that he didn't think Alana could even hear.

He'd spent hours, _weeks,_ staring that that photo. Will lay back, his head resting on Hannibal's bare chest. He was clearly the one holding the camera, a heavy eyed smirk on his face. Hannibal was looking down at Will, one hand tangled in Will's hair, with what could only be called an indulgent smile on his face. They were both scarred, Will's jagged pink, freshly healed wound on his cheek more obvious than any of Hannibal's. That proved, even if there had been any doubt, that the photo was taken well after they had disappeared. On the back there was no message; or rather, there was a message that was all too clear: a recipe, penned by Will, for roast lamb.

“What does it mean?” Alana asked, her voice strangely strong and even once more, despite her shaking hands and silent tears.

“I think you know what it means, Alana.”

“We're never going to get him back, are we?” she asked, looking Jack in the eyes. It was hard for him not to break that contact. “Even if we find them, even if we catch them, we've lost Will, haven't we?”

Jack didn't say anything. He knew Alana knew the answer to that, too.

 


	18. XVIII. Sympathy

Hannibal tried to sit up straighter in his chair, setting off another twinge in his abdomen. His wound was taking longer than he would like to heal, and he let out a frustrated groan, quickly suppressed when Will glanced in his direction.

“Still sore?” he asked, his eyes returning to the newspaper he was scanning.

“A little,” Hannibal answered, wincing. He knew he was perhaps being a little more vocal with his discomfort that he probably needed to be. It _was_ healing, was almost entirely healed, in fact, but he found himself with a wholly unexpected and unfamiliar need driving his actions, entirely without his conscious permission.

“What?” Will said flatly, clearly having noticed the way Hannibal continued to stare at him. Will, however, was very deliberately _not_ looking away from the newspaper.

“You could show a little more sympathy.” Hannibal hadn't intended to say that, to be _quite_ so open and honest, but he wasn't sorry that he did.

“I didn't shoot you,” Will replied testily. “I did pull you out of the water and patch you up though, if you remember.”

“True, but you're the reason we were in the water in the first place. And the reason the gunshot wound was torn open even further when we hit the surface.”

Will took a deep sigh, then slowly and deliberately folded the paper. He put it very carefully on the coffee table, adjusting the paper's corners until they lined up just so with the edges of the table.

“You want sympathy?” His voice retained the same flat quality. “Would you like the same sympathy you gave me after you got me nearly killed by Tobias Budge, and then went through hell feeling like I'd dragged you into the whole sorry mess?”

“I have sympathy for you now,” Hannibal protested, acutely aware of how well Will was going to receive _that_ particular attempted defence. As expected, Will just stared at him, his face devoid of expression.

“You have sympathy for me _now_ ,” he stated. “Now. It's been, what. Five years since then? And you've only just managed to scrape up some sympathy for me now?”

Hannibal decided to play it safe and remain quiet. Had he realised Will was in one of his moods, he might have delayed the conversation for another day, though he also had to keep in mind that his own impulse control was severely lacking at the moment. Chances were even had he known, they'd still be here, having this same conversation.

“You're unbelievable, you know that?” Will said with a laugh, though there was certainly no humour in it.

“And yet, you still saved me. Why?”

Will scowled. They hadn't discussed that, not yet. Bringing it up now could either fix everything, or cause it all to implode. Hannibal wondered which it would be.

“You know why.”

But Hannibal didn't. That was the pure, unvarnished truth.

“I don't. You could have left me to die, though I suspect that wouldn't have been an active enough role for you. You could have pushed just me from the cliff, but instead you came with me. Do you plan to torture and kill me? To join me? To give it time and then hand me in? I don't _know_ , Will.”

Through his words, Hannibal found the source of his need, his (by his standards) begging for Will's attention. He had no idea where he stood, what his purpose was any more. He'd given his life, that night in Wolf Trap, over to Will completely and wholly, and Will had yet to let him know what he planned to do with it. It was an intolerable situation. Even if Will _did_ plan to kill him, knowing would make it that much easier for Hannibal to drop to his knees and allow it to happen.

He looked back up at Will who was looking at him with his mouth open, his face twisted in some sort of disbelief.

“ _Kill_ you?”

“Why not? By your own words, I certainly seem to deserve it.”

Will snorted.

“Deserve it? You _deserve_ it a thousand times over. But I don't think I deserve to lose you.”

Hannibal blinked.

“Jesus Christ, Hannibal. How have you not worked it out by now? How do you not have any idea how much I love you?”

“Oh,” was all Hannibal could say in reply, dumbfounded beyond all capacity to respond with anything resembling coherent thought.

“I did want us to die, when we fell. But when we didn't I swore that you would never be taken from me again. I've spent too many nights wishing I didn't love you, but I do, and so here we are.”

Will's anger at the beginning of his words faded through resignation and into acceptance, his eyes growing softer and more full of affection even as he looked away.

“Oh,” Hannibal repeated. He wished badly for the ability to say something, _anything_ else, but he'd never so much as dared to imagine this happening. He was speechless. He couldn't look away from Will, his eyes dancing over Will's face as he turned to look back at Hannibal.

“Move over,” he said, getting up off his chair to sit next to Hannibal. “Let me see your side.”

Hannibal complied, shifting over to make room for Will. His eyes closed as Will lifted his shirt, his nimble fingers running over the shiny scar tissue, lightly running over skin as they searched for warm or tender spots.

“I love you, too.” Hannibal stumbled over the words. He'd never said them before, not really. They felt strange, like a foreign language he'd never met before, but at the same time they were the truest thing he'd ever spoken. Will just let out a breathy laugh, not shifting his attention from his ministrations.

“I know,” he said, the smile on his face clearly evident in his tone. Hannibal shivered, and smiled in return.

 


End file.
